


Coiffure

by leiascully



Category: British Actor RPF, Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Hair, Hair Braiding, Underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 19:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex is the best at plaiting hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coiffure

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: N/A  
> A/N: For the tumblr anon who prompted "yellow".  
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction that bears no resemblance to and claims no knowledge of the people about whom it is written.

The four of them - Alex, Arthur, Karen, and Matt - are onto their sixth bottle of wine. Arthur picked up his guitar a few minutes ago and he's playing quietly and humming. The window's open and there's a soft breeze. Karen is sitting on the floor between Alex's knees as Alex plaits her hair into a crown. Matt is slumped on the couch, eyes half closed, humming along with Arthur. His head is on the back of the couch, nearly on Alex's shoulder. It's all just so lovely and peaceful. Alex can feel the wine warming her blood and loosening her muscles. Matt's hair tickles occasionally against her skin. Karen sighs happily from the floor as Arthur strums gentle chords.

"Mmm, Alex, you're the best," Karen says, sipping at her wine. "Will you do my hair all the time?"

"I think your current hairdresser might be a bit vexed," Alex tells her, tucking the last plaited end under. "Besides, you've seen my hair. Plaits are all I can manage, and I've only gotten all right at those since I have a daughter."

"You've got good hands, though," Karen says. "You don't pull at all." She reaches up to touch the crown of plaits, her fingertips delicately exploring. "Perfect."

"Me next," Matt insists, letting himself slide down the cushions so that his head is resting in Alex's lap. Karen leans back.

"Oi," she says, "get your own hairdresser."

"You can't get any more coiffed, Kaz," he tells her lazily. "Stop monopolizing the Kingston."

Alex reaches down and runs her fingers through his hair, which is thick and soft and silky against her palms. The expression on his face would be misleading out of context, she thinks; to inspire that much pleasure, she'd probably be stroking something else. Her blood warms even more and it's got nothing to do with the alcohol.

"Shall I give him plaits as well?" she asks.

"Oh, fine," Karen says, pretending to be in a strop. "I see how it is. I thought we had something special, Alex. But it's just braid 'em and leave 'em with you."

Alex chuckles. "You can be first in line for the next opening at the Salon D'Alexandra," she teases.

"I wanna be first in line," Matt mumbles. "For everything. She can be second. Or third. Or last."

"Rude," Karen tells him. "That's what I call that." She scoots closer to Arthur, joining in with his humming and pouring herself more wine. Alex eases her fingers through Matt's hair, brushing back that ridiculous forelock and letting her fingertips caress his scalp. Over and over she combs through his hair with her fingers, until she's half-hypnotized herself by the soft sleekness of his hair and the way it falls away from her hands. He stretches out on the sofa, burrowing into her lap with his shoulders. 

"Plaits?" she offers. "Curls? Bearing in mind I haven't any curlers. But maybe…." She twists a lock of hair around her finger and holds it for a long moment. It springs back, slightly wavier than before. "There, it takes patience."

"You can do anything you want to me," he says, looking up at her through heavy-lidded eyes, and as certain as she is that that's the wine and his natural flirtiness talking, it still makes something jump in her stomach to hear him say those words in that husky low voice. She glances away from the lazy intensity of his gaze. His t-shirt is riding up the plane of his stomach, and his jeans have pulled away from his hips. In between, there's a dusting of dark hair and a band of elastic - his underwear, which appears to be the color of banana candy.

"Have you got yellow pants on?" she asks, leaning a little closer.

"Probably," he murmurs. "We can go check if you'd like."

"Naughty," she chides, still running her hands through his hair. She can't seem to stop touching his hair. She wonders, very briefly, if she could find skin as soft as this hair, as smooth, as warm and welcoming under her hands. She suspects that she could. His face is so close to her belly, and his eyes are so intense. She nearly expects him to turn his face and nuzzle at her hip or her thigh, looking up at her, seeing how she reacts. 

Honestly, she isn't certain how she'd react. They're not in her flat or his. It seems rude to rip off the clothes of a co-star on another co-star's couch, at least without prior permission. If they were in her flat, she'd probably have the trousers off him already. It's those bedroom eyes he's giving her, and the incongruously decadent and intimate sensation of holding his head in her hands as he lies trustingly in her lap, his face flushed with pleasure. 

"Maybe next time," he says. 

"Definitely," she says. "Let me know the next time you wear them. I imagine they're a sight to be seen."

He looks at her and it seems as if he's about to say something, but then he closes his eyes and smiles. She strokes his hair, the strands slipping between her fingers as her hands tell him a story of the way things could be: electric sighs and exquisite touches, yellow pants long forgotten, discarded in the rush to let skin meet skin. His hand rises and settles at her hip. He takes a fold of the fabric of her shirt between his fingers, one finger slipping underneath to rest against her skin. 

"Oh, they're lost to us," Alex hears Karen say through the haze of warmth. Matt's half-asleep and Alex is drifting that way, lulled by the weight of his body against hers. "Play that song about the thing. God, it's late." 

It's absolutely late, and soon it will be early, but Alex is too happy to mind.


End file.
